


Sing, Muse, of the Passion of the Pistol

by fightlikeagirl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, FYSL Hotter Than Hell Fanwork Exchange, M/M, space western
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-22
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2018-02-09 22:14:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1999929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fightlikeagirl/pseuds/fightlikeagirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This is what happens in times of war," he says. "And these are times of war."</p><p>He has a preacher's voice, Sam thinks, and in this town, he's known his share of preachers. The man straightens, lets his hand linger on Sam's shoulder. It's warm, and very nearly familiar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sing, Muse, of the Passion of the Pistol

**Author's Note:**

> written for the summer FYSL exchange for lesbiansatan  
> the prompt was "loyalty"

The Outer Montana Territory teems, and it thrives in the worst way possible. Not with the slick, calculating gangsters of the wealthier parts of Eos, whose elegant violence brings cities to their knees, but with filth and infection, with chain gangs and unlicensed, poxy whores, with pollution and rats in the gutters, snake oil salesmen, and the gangs. The gangs. The most tangled, knotted mess of rivalries and backstabbings, alleyway executions, petty theft and grift, all the dozens upon dozens of different allegiances weaving a web no one but the locals could ever try to pick apart.

Sam runs with a small gang, only four or five of them, weather depending. He likes it that way, has never wanted to be a bit piece in some bigger machine, though the Shepherds and the Stillwater Butchers have both tried recruiting him more than once. Red Angus, Indira, Hatchet, Mickey, Yuki -- he likes them well enough. He wouldn't call them friends.

"Winchester!" Angus shouts, voice carrying across the red desert expanse. "Bring us a sledgehammer, the fucking door is sealed shut tight. Can't get at the salvage if we can't get through the damn door."

It's not the most elegant solution, but it does the trick, and they manage a rudimentary doorway into the crashed shuttle within an hour. And the salvage is supposed to be worth it, from the rumors they've heard -- Mickey's cousin had filled out the inspection log, and the ship had enough parts worth their weight in gold to set them all up well enough for a few years, and the cousin was confident enough that the coordinates were so well-buried that no one would be out here any time soon.

Yuki hacks into the engine room with a crowbar, a savage, graceful butchery, ripping through the floor to pull out what Sam can't help but think of as the ship's guts. And true to story, most of what's in there is shiny and new, recent releases and upgrades that haven't even reached the Outer Montana Territory yet. Indira lets out a longing sigh as Sam and Yuki haul parts out and pass them to Hatchet to wrap up and analyze.

"God, _what_ we could do with these in a real ship," she says. "God knows how these jewels ended up in this piece of crap, but in something _real_ , Jesus, we could really make something."

"And where were you going to find a ship?" Yuki asks her, laughing. "Unless you've got one there in your pocket. These'll fetch a tidy bundle on the Dockstown Markets, and you can use your cut to paint your apartment like a spaceship, if you like."

They finish their work for the day as the sun is going down, the last, licking red tongues disappearing behind far-off blue mountains. Hatchet voices the idea of sleeping on the ship, but Red Angus and Indira shoot him down. _Too many ghosts,_ Angus shivers, and they unroll their mats and sleeping bags. They'll wake at first light to continue the job. There are other, even more valuable pieces in the bowels of the ship, delicate parts that will require finesse to remove.

The moon is well overhead when Sam stirs, the cool light skimming over the red rocks of the desert, giving everything an eerie glow. And it's quiet, a terrible kind of quiet, like the atmo's suddenly depressurized, except that they're not on a ship --

\-- the roar is the sound a beast makes, an animal fury, a lust to sink its claws into something, rip flesh apart. He hears Hatchet scream.

And then everything is terror and scrambling panic, strangers, monsters, flooding into their camp, making sounds like _demons_. Blood soaks into the sand. He sees Yuki grab for his shotgun, sees the shell tear through one of them, and then two more are on him, ripping him apart. He sees them tear his arms off, pull him to pieces. He sees another bury its face in his entrails.

Indira kills one, a neat, quick headshot, and then another. "Sam," she screams, and shoves a pistol into his hands. He gets one in the shoulder, gives Red Angus time to find his knife, but there's more coming, and this time he isn't quick enough, Angus goes down in a spray of blood and gore. Indira, next, still screaming and cursing them, and then Hatchet, cut nearly in half --

The fighting doesn't quite cease then, but it slows, quiets, and the presence that arrives brings a heaviness to the air, a weight that settles on Sam's chest and makes him gasp. He moves like through water, turning and pulling up his pistol but his arms won't work properly. The presence studies him, exuding a faint curiosity.

"Don't kill this one," it says, and someone wrests the gun from his grasp, pinning his arms behind his back. Sam doesn't struggle, limp and light-headed. Something hits in the head, and the world goes dark.

 

 

"Sam Winchester," a voice says from above him, and Sam blinks, squints his eyes against the harshness of the light. "Twenty-four years old. Born to John and Mary Winchester, one brother, four years older. Mother deceased. Studied mechanical engineering briefly, left home at fifteen." The man looks up from his dossier, glances at Sam. "Bit young, weren't you?" There's an odd note of sympathy in his voice that Sam doesn't know what to make of.

He doesn't reply, takes a moment to take in his surroundings. Small bunk, standard passenger sized. He's slumped in the corner of the bed, hands bound behind his back, a man standing over him. The situation is not promising.

"Joined up with a low-life gang," the man continues, "after living on the streets for six months. Left when the gang incorporated into the Shepherds, joined a new one, just as small-time. And then there's a series of gangs that follow, none of them lasting more than a year. All culminating in the bodies outside."

Sam remembers then, remembers the sprays of blood, the screams, the sounds Angus made as he died, and nearly vomits. "Oh God," he says, and the man crouches down, rests his hands on Sam's knees.

"This is what happens in times of war," he says. "And these are times of war."

He has a preacher's voice, Sam thinks, and in this town, he's known his share of preachers. The man straightens, lets his hand linger on Sam's shoulder. It's warm, and very nearly familiar. And then Sam thinks, _outside_.

"Where are we?"

"Aboard the _Surya_ ," the man tells him. "Don't worry, Sam, it's still just as dead as ever, we haven't gone anywhere in it. But it serves well enough for a camp for the time being."

Sam suppresses a shiver. The ghost ship.

The man taps the dossier. "It's quite complete. But I can't help feeling there are some things it doesn't quite cover."

He gets a sullen stare from Sam in response.

"I want to know about _you_ , Sam," he says. "All of these broken alliances. All this petty crime, low-life thugs, never doing anything more than scraping by. Did you never feel you were meant for something more?"

"Who are you?" Sam asks instead. "What do you care about me?"

He gets a smile out of the man, an unfriendly, mocking smile. "Don't tell me you haven't guessed."

And he has. He has something of an idea. From the moment he'd seen the way the man's crew had fought, the thought of what they were had been creeping up on him slowly, much as he'd tried to shove it down. But this man -- he's just supposed to be a myth, not _real_ , not flesh and blood. "Lucifer," he whispers through a mouth gone dry. "But you're not real." His gang, they were real enough, he'd met enough people got on the wrong side of the Hellhounds, had seen their work up close. Said to be led by the Devil himself, but everyone knew that was just a story made up to scare kids. He'd figured they didn't even have a leader, just a fucked up dark faith holding them together.

Lucifer laughs. "I'm quite real." He crouches back down, puts himself at eye-level with Sam. Sam shrinks back instinctively, and Lucifer's lip curls up in amusement. "I'm fascinated by you, Sam. Couldn't quite tell you why, but something about you draws me in. And you're fascinated by me, too."

"Am not," Sam says automatically, and then feels about four years old. Lucifer ignores him.

"Explain this to me," he says, gesturing to the folder.

"No," Sam says.

"Alright," Lucifer says. And that's it. No threats, no torture. Just a simple curiosity. But --

"I'll be back," he says. "And we'll talk again."

 

 

They leave Sam on his own after that. Someone brings him food -- instant rice and beans -- and unties his wrists. There's a sliver of a window at the top of the cabin, and he can see the sun shift across the sky. Banging echoes periodically throughout the ship, and he can hear people talking, laughing. He sleeps, mostly, and looks out of his window sliver. Does what excercise he can in the tiny cabin, cramped crunches and squashed push-ups. He wonders if they've forgotten about him.

Judging by the light, it's been maybe twelve hours when Lucifer comes to see him again. He doesn't come armed, surprising Sam. Trusting him, then.

"Hello, Sam," he says, perching on the block beside the bed, the sort of generic, all-purpose furniture you find on these types of ships. "I trust you're keeping well?"

Sam rolls his eyes.

"I brought you dinner," Lucifer says, holding out a plastic tray of rehydrated lentil dahl. Sam wants to refuse it, but he's starving, and he wolfs it down. It's unexpectedly good, better than the rice and beans, the processed texture covered by spices. He looks up to find Lucifer watching him, his gaze uncomfortably hungry and intimate. Sam scrapes up the last of the lentils and sets the tray down, feeling self-conscious.

"I watched you fight," Lucifer says. "You're very graceful. Who taught you how to fight like that?"

"My brother, some," Sam says. "He taught me most of the hand-to-hand I know, and he showed me the basics of firearms before I left. My dad, a bit, too."

"Just a bit?"

Sam exhales. "I learned everything else on the streets. Dean showed me how to use a handgun, how to load it and keep it clean, but everything else -- rifles, laser technology, really big guns, the kind of stuff you don't get working as a two-bit mechanic in a slum, I learned for myself."

"You've had good teachers," Lucifer says. "I know some of the old gangs you ran with. They had some real fighters, once." He pauses. "Ever used a sword?"

"Knives, some," Sam says uncertainly, and Lucifer shakes his head.

"It's a very different animal. I'd like to see you with a sword in your hand. You'd make a lovely swordsman, I think. So. Your brother taught you how to kill. But you ran away from home."

"Yeah," Sam says. "When I was fifteen. It's in your file."

"Tell me why."

Sam shakes his head.

Lucifer folds his arms, leans back against the wall. "You had a family. A father and a brother. Social Services doesn't have any records of abuse, not so much as noise complaints from the neighbors. And you and your brother were close, weren't you?"

Sam shrugs, feeling increasingly annoyed with the line of questioning.

"Where was your loyalty, Sam? Children are supposed to be loyal to their fathers. That's how all family stories are supposed to go, aren't they?" He leans forward now, eyes bright and gleaming. "The son isn't meant to run out on his father and elder brother."

"I --" Sam starts. He swallows, shakes.

Lucifer scoots further forward, reaches out and pushes a hand through Sam's hair. "I was never good at fitting into stories either, Sam."

"Fuck you," Sam says, but it comes out weak, no conviction in it at all.

"Never comfortable with obedience," Lucifer says, "so unwilling to do what you were told, to trust someone else to control your destiny. I know where your loyalty lies," he says. "It's to yourself."

 

 

Lucifer doesn't come back for two days after that. He's brought food and water, but no one speaks to him. He wonders what they plan to do with him after they leave the ship. He doesn't sleep at all.

When Lucifer does return, his reappearance is startling. Sam had been half expecting to find that everyone had packed up and left, had forgotten all about him.

"It's you," he says, stupidly.

"Me," Lucifer replies, settling onto the tiny bed next to Sam, crossing his legs and facing him. Sam scoots backward, but there's not enough room on the little bed to put more than a few inches between them. "I thought we might talk some more."

"I don't think I like talking to you," Sam tells him.

"Of course you do," Lucifer says. "Like I said before. You're fascinated by me." He peers closer at Sam. "You haven't been sleeping."

"Couldn't really," Sam mutters. "Not on this ship."

Lucifer makes a sound of sympathy, and reaches forward, takes one of Sam's hands and strokes it, like a mother calming a small child. His touch is familiar. "You can feel the ghosts. You're quite unusual, Sam."

"I'm afraid of being your idea of unusual," Sam says, a little surprised himself at his candor. "You make it sound --" He breaks off and frowns, looking away.

"Important," Lucifer finishes for him. "Special. And you are special, Sam. I think you've always felt it. I don't think it was a coincidence that I found you out here."

He hasn't let go of Sam's hand. "What do you want with me?" Sam whispers. "Why are you still keeping me here?"

"I want you," Lucifer says. "In any way that you will consent to."

And his lips are on Sam's, a hot, wet crush, his frame bent over Sam and his knees straddling him. One hand cups his face, the other tangles in his hair. Lucifer kisses fierce, demanding that Sam feel this, a claim laid upon him. It's intoxicating, and Sam can't help but kiss back, sighing into Lucifer's mouth when he pulls away.

"I want you by my side," Lucifer tells him, lips pressed to his forehead, one hand combing through his hair, the other one on his hip, gently stroking little circles over his skin. "I want to watch you kill for me," whispered into the hollow of his throat, as the hand slides up his shirt, stroking his back. "I want to find out what you'll become with me. Say yes, Sam."

He can hardly speak, can barely even breathe with the electricity of Lucifer's skin against his. He's pushed gently back down when he reaches up to kiss Lucifer again, Lucifer's hands cradling his face, eyes bright, pinning him down.

"Say it," Lucifer commands. "Say it."

His eyes are a deep blue Sam thinks he might drown in. He feels like an insect pinned to a mat. His breath is shallow when he draws air into his lungs. "Okay," he says. "Yes."


End file.
